"Kevin J. Anderson -1996- Ignition (v1.0) (txt)" - читать интересную книгу автора (Anderson Kevin J)

In the years he had known her, even in their most intimate moments, Iceberg had never thought of buying her jewelry. That had never been "Panther" 's style.

No, he pictured her in sweats, jogging with him for their morning workout... or dressed in an astronaut jumpsuit in the simulators at Johnson Space Center, her dark eyes squinting at the controls, mechanically reacting as problem after problem was tossed at her in the sims. She and Iceberg had been the best: part of a team, confident of being selected for a shuttle mission . . . soon. It had been enough of a shock when she had resigned her Navy commission to become a civilian astronaut.

But then Nicole had changed her mind and gone "VFR direct"- visual flight rules-into NASA management, returning from a six-month special MBA program, and at Harvard, of all places! A new golden girl on a fast track to become Launch Director for an upcoming flight. And Iceberg had been picked to command the shuttle crew without her.

A staticky announcement in garbled French came over bullhorns mounted on towers near the bleachers. Iceberg couldn't understand a word of it, but he could watch the blinking numbers of the countdown clock as well as anyone. Not long now.

He fidgeted on the uncomfortable bleacher, sweating in his suit, but vowing not to let it show. At least he wasn't in his Air Force uniform; that would have been even hotter. And if Nicole could manage to look nice under these circumstances, he could do the same.

He ached when he looked at her, though he usually masked his deeper feelings. He just couldn't understand her copping out to join the desk jockeys instead of hanging in there, doing the real work for the real glory. Of course, neither of them had ever been very good at compromising. It wasn't in the blood.

From the Toucan Observation Site, Iceberg could make out launchpad ELA-2. The Ariane rocket stood beside an enclosed gantry, a rectangular wafer shimmering in the heat. The facilities displayed the European Space Agency's logo, a blue circle design with bold lowercase letters, esa.

In the nearby seats, well-dressed guests waited, shading their eyes and staring east into the morning sun. Some were local politicians, others celebrities, and most looked bored in the sticky equatorial heat.

In the mountains above the coastal lowlands, the locals had set up encampments, bringing fruit and picnic lunches to watch the launch. Iceberg had heard it was a common pastime around the Guiana Space Center.

The clock ticked down. Tension built in the air. On the bleachers, observers squirmed as if they could somehow improve their view. "Sure wish something would happen," Iceberg muttered. "Patience has never been one of your strong points," Nicole said.

The walkie-talkie at Mr. Phillips's waist crackled. He grabbed it in annoyance; the entire team had been instructed to observe strict radio silence, despite the encryption routines the team had developed.

Mory's voice burst out, distorted from the descrambling routines. "We're blown, Mr. Phillips!" he said. "Some guard spotted me and Cue-ball. He tore out of here in his Jeep before we could kill him. I don't know if he's radioed for help yet."

"Bother," Mr. Phillips said. "Less than thirty seconds to go." A momentary inconvenience.

Another voice came over the radio, laced with an Australian accent. "Duncan here, Mr. Phillips. Not to worry-I got him. He's about to drive over the . . . dotted . . . line."

Muffled by the jungle underbrush, a small land mine exploded with a crrump.

Mr. Phillips squeezed the "talk" button. "Excellent work, Duncan." The other man acknowledged the compliment with two quick clicks on the speaker.

"Ten seconds left. I hope they don't go into a launch hold." Mr. Phillips turned toward Jacques, who stood caressing the detonator box, Yvette beside him. "Be prepared to detonate if the countdown stops. Otherwise, let's sit back and enjoy the show."

In front of him, a pair of sapphire blue butterflies flitted, oblivious to the monumental event about to take place. The air was as tense as a held breath.

On launchpad ELA-2, the countdown reached zero.

Four Viking 5 first-stage core engines lit off simultaneously in the center of the Ariane 44L; at the same time, four additional strap-on Viking 6 booster rockets fired. Flames and white exhaust belched in a great fan across the launchpad. Clouds of smoke rolled away from the concrete apron, enveloping the rocket.

Finally, loud alarms began to blare far from the launch site, faded by distance and overwhelmed by the blast-off roar. Mr. Phillips heard a warbling siren, but the Guiana Space Center was so large he and his team would have plenty of time.

The white lance of the unmanned 44L rose into the air on a pillar of fire, clearing the top of its umbilical tower and heaving itself above its own toxic exhaust.

Jacques turned toward him, the detonator box in one hand. "Now, Monsieur Phillips?" Yvette clung to his muscular arm.

Mr. Phillips continued to watch the marvelous rocket, astonished by the technological achievement, the sheer power of the engines. An inverted Roman candle, suspended by a glowing ball of white-hot plasma. "Exhilarating," he said.

The rocket climbed higher and higher, picking up speed as it struggled against the chains of gravity.